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No wise fish would go anywhere without a porpoise


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10pm. Central Park.

Mackenzie, despite knowing the city like the back of her hand, had chosen a specific spot. It means something to her, and tends to gravitate toward the site whenever she visits. These times are rare; This would be the first time in well over a year that she has laid eyes upon it.

The bronze is dark in the gently lit area, but she sees it clearly. A girl sitting upon a mushroom, a rabbit to her right. A drawfed man with a bulbous nose and oversized top hat to her right. Animals. More mushrooms.

It makes you feel small, and she is sure that it is designed to do as much. Some might look at those construct in a state of awe or wonder. Mackenzie only sees a regretful time, a dagger, and her image with another, running away from a scene via aerial camera.

All seen on the news, from the comfort of a studio apartment.

Not her best 24 hours.

Her mood is dark, and as times long ago surface to the forefront of her memory, Mackenzie remembers well that tumultuous time. She remembers what happened here, and after, and everything from then on.

Ultimately, it leads to a dangerous game of what if, and all things lead to blaming herself for a single, recent death. It hangs overhead like a dark cloud, raining a heavy weight upon her shoulders that builds every second that she fails to deal with it. Of all her losses and gains, this would be most difficult to move past. At least, that is what she believes, for there is a resentment within her that grows for the man she called her best friend.

But that isn't why she is here. None of that is.

Mackenzie is here, because she was bid to be.

She had told Victor of her plans, a coy little smirk upon her face as she playfully taunted him. Words would only go so far, however. That lead to something else. A dress, form fitting and tastefully revealing. Heels. Her unruly waves of dark hair are tamed, and made to look intentional. These intentionally cruel details are what would torture the man, especially as she walked out the door to their shared hotel room with the intent of meeting another.

The warm, spring air leaves her grateful for the ability to dress however she wants. Blending in has never been something she really worried about, and it would at times leave her awkward situations. Like that one time, someone thought she was homeless.

Awkward, but an easy meal.

Am at Alice.

She steps up to the statue, small hands touching to the top of the mushroom nearest the Hatter, and pulls herself up with ease. Sat atop her own, personal kryptonite (one of many, to be truthful), Mackenzie takes to conquering it while waiting for the good time she was promised.
May 01, 2018 02:57 pm

Elis Griffyn

The man whose home Elis currently shared was slimmer than the vampire. Where Elis was broad-shouldered and tall, George was toned but slight. The decent body one would expect of a Christian Grey-esque wealthy bachelor with a penchant for fine dinning and vintage reds.

Elis, on the other hand, had spent his mortality in the fields and woodlands, harvesting and hunting and protecting his village. His body was hard, his skin freckled and thick, tight across his chest and the cords of muscle that covered his limbs. His body was scarred with the years, creased by his eyes and rough around the edges.

But for the majority, whether they be mortal or other, he came across much more…refined. So practised was he in shrouding himself with the illusion of humanity and order, he rarely exposed his true self to anyone. To the outside world, he was clean cut and well built, with auburn hair pushed back over his head and bright eyes that hinted to a mindful of mischievous thoughts.

Elis was beautiful, whatever form he allowed to be on display. But to save the questions of age and the second glances, he neatened himself up for the crowds. After all, modern day early-thirties was very different to his time, all those centuries ago.

So when Mackenzie’s text reached him, he wasn’t home. Instead, he was at a nearby tailors who’d felt compelled to stay open late to satisfy Elis’s need for better fitting clothing than what he’d attempted to pilfer from George.

His suit was a charcoal grey and fitting, loose enough to appreciate the warmer evening of the city as he began to walk toward Central Park. He’d opted out of a tie, instead allowing the collar of his white shirt a few buttons freedom, and on his wrist he wore a rather lovely Rolex he’d purchased in London during the early 1900s.

Tonight, Elis Gryffin was the epitome of class. It oozed from him without seemed false or forced. And his face, resting in a light smile, only changed expression once he spotted the bronze statue in the distance.

He knew this place. Both from the news and from Jack and Tanvir’s own tellings of the event. He knew exactly what had happened here those few years ago and only now, as he spotted the woman’s form atop a worn mushroom, did he find himself questioning her motives. Of all the places, he thought to himself. Why would she return here?

Closing in on her, he stopped only when he reached the statue and, reaching out a hand, he pressed his palm to the worn metal, turned lighter through years of contact with tourists and children. If he closed his eyes, he wondered how many lives he would be able to sense in that one light touch. How many should had taken a moment to connect with the statue, drawn to it through nostalgia and curiosity?

But he didn’t close his eyes. Instead, he looked toward the woman and simply smiled.

“Surely there’s a joke to be made here about a woman atop a mushroom cap?” he grinned, before continuing in her native tongue. “Tabhair dom am, tabhair dom am.”

His truer grasp of Irish was based on his own mother tongue - the old Germanic who’s dialect still graced itself upon his every word. And if he attempted to speak to the woman any further in the modernised language he knew her to be born to, he realised how quickly the attempt would fail, for he knew very little in comparison.

“No Redcoat body guard then?”
May 01, 2018 03:36 pm
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